


The Art of Guilt

by ProwlingThunder



Series: The Everlasting List of Shenanigans [39]
Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Reincarnation, Survivor Guilt, guilt complex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt!Fill.</p><p>Shura is loyal. He wont fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Guilt

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dead Man's Apprentice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201824) by [ZpanSven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZpanSven/pseuds/ZpanSven). 



> The prompt was simply "Shura."

The chamber seemed smaller then normal, Shura determined, knowing it was just his own perception as he stepped inside. Athena's audience chamber always seemed small without Her inside it, the Pope had reassured him as a boy, but now it seemed somehow tiny with the Sagittarius Cloth on the side settled atop a podium. The head was missing, but they had all the other pieces, and somehow that was a relief unto itself.

 

It had been so long that the Cloth had been missing from the Sanctuary. He had almost forgotten what it had looked like. But now most of the pieces had been recovered from the blasphemers, and the helmet would be soon enough. Then it would be whole again.

 

Then he could train the successor.

 

“When the final piece is recovered, I will present the completed Cloth to Her Ladyship.” The Pope told him, sounding somehow tired and stretched thin. Shura swallowed at the sound, but the tone in Arles' voice passed quickly enough. He was young; not much older then Shura himself, but startlingly young in comparison to the former Holy Father. His strength was admirable-- that he admitted, in these hesitant tones, just how overwhelmed he was... so was that. The blasphemers were trouble, and they plagued the Holy Father's thoughts much as they did his own.

 

The flush of pride that swelled in him made Shura stand straighter; Pope Arles had not invited any of the other Saints to see what they had recovered. Nor had any other been trusted to see this caution. This was a trust the Holy Father was showing only to him.

 

Nevertheless, mentions of Athena made Shura long to see Her all the more. His Goddess had never met them, any of them, nor had they been permitted to see Her. With the trouble to the East, it was something that they had all been cautious of pursing. Someone had gotten the Cloth out to the islands that night... on the night the traitor had died.

 

Athena, he couldn't even think his name. What had that man done to him?

 

“Will we be granted a audience with Her?”

 

Arles shook his head. Shura tried not to let his heart sink; he was a loyal Saint, and the Pope's words were as much Athena's own. “There is still a traitor in our midst, and our Lady is still much too vulnerable. I am sorry, Shura, but I cannot reveal Her yet.”

 

“The second traitor will return for the Cloth.” Shura swore, and behind his mask, the Holy Father made a noise of agreement.

 

“Yes. It is Athena's Will that Sanctuary learn it is returned to us. Tonight, Deathmask shall stand guard in this room, and we shall catch the thief.”  
  
Tonight? Why would the other traitor try for it so soon? That hardly made any sense, unless--

 

Prophets and Seers. The Ara Saint had seen the thief. Arles knew who the traitor was, and when they would be coming.

 

Yet something coiled nastily in Shura's belly. Some sort of jealousy, perhaps, that Deathmask would be facing off with them instead of himself. But if their enemy was no simple mortal, and not all of those within Sanctuary's barriers were, then the assassin was the best to fend against them and bring them to heel. Shura would not be petty against him-- he had already had his bout against a traitor once, when Deathmask was a boy, and now it was the other's turn to show his skills.

 

“Deathmask will not fail Her Ladyship.” He would probably cackle madly while ripping out the traitor's soul, and Shura for one did not wish to see it. There was a sadistic sort of pleasure that the Cancer Saint took from his kills that Shura could not begin to comprehend.

 

Killing... the traitor... had nearly ripped his own heart from his breast. Were it another Gold Saint, Shura did not think he would survive the night sane.

 

“Nor shall you.” Arles promised, tone warm and reassuring and somehow curiously proud. Shura brushed his fingers against the rim of the podium as he turned, watching the elder's dark robes shift. “Go tonight, Shura. Think of who may be worthy for the honor of this Cloth, and tell me of them at sunset tomorrow. I am eager to think of who may have your favor.”  
  
Shura bowed, knowing a dismissal when he heard one, and cast one last look at the incomplete archer before he swept from the chamber. The Holy Father had more important business then to entertain him; the blasphemers would not defeat themselves.

 

That night, he found himself at the edge of the cliff the traitor had fallen from, staring down into the dark chasm below him. It was so dark that there didn't seem to be an end, and the walls were nearly sheer. As children, much younger then he was now, he and Aries had been brought up here to see if they could climb it, as a test from the Sagittarius Saint. Neither of them had ever managed the feat, and after the elder had died, Shura hadn't felt like attempting it again, and Mu had fled about as far as he could go without seeming like he was running away.

 

There was no ghost tonight that plagued him. None, in the least, except for those in his own mind, and they whispered and bickered more to themselves then at him for much of the hour.

 

Then he turned to make back for the Mount, and felt his blood turn to ice in his veins; a familiar figure was walking past him with careful, half-dazed steps, a limp and a thick stain of blood on his leg, with curly brown hair and a messy red headband. The stylized Cloth-box bore the elaborate image and insignia of the Sagittarius.

 

There was a ghost here after all. And Shura knew it's name like an old friend beneath his ribs.

 

“Aioros.”


End file.
